


Don't Wake Me Up

by Vermouth19



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Background Character Death, Depression, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9671939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermouth19/pseuds/Vermouth19
Summary: “Patrick, you’re killing yourself.” Even without turning back, I can see disappointment on his expression.I let myself crack a smile at that remark. “No shit, Sherlock.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I based my fanfic on real life person and it felt... weird. Warning for major character's death and trigger. Stay safe!

If hell has a different name, I will vote _my life_.

I wake up as usual, but feel more tired than the previous day if that is even possible. The clock next to my bed flashes the digits of 13.01 in bright red, my least favorite color next to the glaring white light coming from the crack of the dark curtain that almost hit me in the eyes. Some might call that a bit of luck, but I called it universe’s small mercy since I only had three hours of sleep last night.

I turn my head to my left and see Pete looking back at me. I close my eyes and let my head fall back to the pillow, hoping that the universe will give me another mercy.

“Morning, Trick,” he greets me softly, the same way he does every morning.

“You’re here,” I simply state, still closing my eyes.

“You know I can’t leave, not if …“

He let his words trail off but we both know what he means by that. 

In response, I finally let the real world crushes back to my brain and sit on the edge of our bed. The ring on my finger accidentally hit the wooden bed frame and it gives a much bigger effect on me compare to the actual sound that it makes.

“Please don’t,” I urgently whisper before Pete can open his lips.

“Patrick, you’re killing yourself.” Even without turning back, I can see disappointment on his expression.

I let myself crack a smile at that remark. “No shit, Sherlock.”

I can hear him taking a deep breath, as if preparing for another battle against me. “Take your medicine. Please, for me.”

To respond that, I give him the question that has been bugging me for two weeks now. “What for?” 

“So you can sleep longer than three hours!”

“Maybe if you just stay longer, I would sleep just fine!”

My chest is heaving like I was just running a mile nonstop; maybe because it’s true. I keep running from the universe for these past two weeks. I am not planning on stopping any time soon, though. 

“Take your medicine, Trick. I can’t keep watching you like this,” says Pete with the same devastated tone. 

“I can’t. It makes me feel fuzzy, as if I am living a dream.”

“ _That_ is real. This one is the dream sequence,” he says in with a matter-of-fact tone. 

He said the same thing about a week ago, and I lashed out at him. This time, I simply don’t have the energy left to fight back. 

“If that’s true, then I don’t ever want to wake up.”

The silence following my statement felt like forever. 

“You don’t mean that,” his voice now sounded completely broken. I don’t care. I’m too numb to process everything that goes around my head right now.

Before I can give him another piece of my thoughts, my phone lit up and the word ‘ _JOE_ ’ appears on the screen. I do nothing but stare at the dancing gadget. I don’t want to risk smashing it on the ground. After all, it’s a birthday gift from Pete.

“You can’t keep ignoring your friends and family, Trick. They care about you. I care about you.” I know I must be wrong, but I can feel his hand on my shoulder. “You need to get out of this house sooner or later.”

I let out another broken smile. “I can’t.”

“Why?” he asks, or technically demands.

I lift my head but instead of turning back and face him, I stare at the empty space in front of me. 

“Because every time I see the look of pity being thrown at me, I see your casket.”

There, I said what my psychologist kept telling me to say out loud these past two weeks: the truth. She said it would help me getting through the grief and moving on. Moved on to what, that was the big question. You moved on from being rejected by your first love. You moved on from getting dumped by your unfaithful girlfriend. You moved on from having bad record sales. 

You do _not_ simply just move on from the death of your fiance just a week before your marriage. 

I thought I was going to cry, but I had abused my tear ducts these past few weeks so now apparently I have none left to shed. Pete still says nothing, which is a surprise since he can’t seem to stop talking from day one post his death, always trying to make me take my medicine. Medicine that will erase him from my memory so I don’t look like a crazy man talking to an imaginary person that lives inside his head.

As if confirming my insanity, Pete now stands in front of me. I let myself crack another smile, seeing my fiance standing in front of me like that. He looks exactly the same last time I saw him in this very room, before he went out and got himself in a car accident. If only I told him to stay with me that day, he would be standing in front of me for real.

“I’m sorry,” say I, choking back a sob. I don’t even know what I was apologizing for but I repeat it over and over to the thin air in front of me.

“It’s not your fault. If there is someone to blame, it’s me,” says Pete, always a gentleman who took other’s blame until the end. 

We say nothing to each other for a moment, letting silence dominates the room. Before everything goes down, I rarely got silence in my life. Now, silence feels louder than anything I have ever heard. Every second of silence hammers my head, heart, lungs, sanity, and what was left of me with harsh, blunt reality, that this time no one is going to break the silence but me. 

I feel like screaming but I don’t have any energy left to even get out of our bedroom.

To my surprise, Pete slowly kneels in front of me and gives the same look he did when I was being too stubborn to let him win, kind of what happens now. 

“Take your medicine, Patrick. One step at a time, we’ll make it through together. Please?” 

I don’t give him any verbal reply; simply continue to stare at him. I look at his left hand and see the same gold ring that matches mine. We had waited for years to get to this point, only to be taken abruptly in a second. We could have more time. We _should_ have more time.

I exhale heavily and, for the first time since two weeks ago, I make a genuine smile. “Alright, I’m going to take my medicine.”

Pete mirrors my smile and watches as I walk to the bathroom to get water. Along the way there, I take the orange bottle from the cabinet. It was prescribed by my psychologist to be taken twice a day but, I think to myself, why wait? Everybody wants me to get better soon, right? 

After I pour everything down my abused throat and chug a generous amount of water, I go back to my bed and intend to sleep again. My phone, which I don’t realized has thrown Joe’s call into voice mail, lit up once again with a text from the same person. I am not planning on reading it, but against my better judgment, my hand move to retrieve it.

_R u up already? Andy and I r going 2 get coffee. Wanna join us? – Joe_

After sending my reply, I pull up my comforter and let my heavy eyes close.

Pete is nowhere to be seen but I’m not bothered by this anymore.

I’m going to see him again when I wake up, anyway.

* * *

_Can’t, going to see Pete. You two have fun. – Patrick (message delivered)_


End file.
